Just a silly little note
by skinnyrita
Summary: 2 versions: slash or non slash, explained inside. Draco starts sending Harry notes in his thrid year, and they get increasingly disturbing. Darkish fic, with some torture and uncomfortable revelations. My regulars seem to like it, so please read and revie


Okay, so in light of some of my previous reviewers requesting less slash, I have written this oneshot, which is in Harry's POV, in a way that satisfies those who **like** slash, and those who **don't like** slash. Those who **don't like** slash should finish reading when they reach the line. Don't be put off –the ending is just as good as the one the slash people get, in fact I was planning on leaving it there before I made it slash at the end. Alternatively, fans of HPDM slash may continue reading after the line. **Hopefully this leaves everyone happy.**

_**Quick summary:** You know in the HP3 film, Draco sends Harry a little flying note? Well no, I am not about to utilise that in a dodgy way, but it did give me a little fic idea, which I hope you will like. It's quite dark –I forewarn you. _

_**Disclaimer:** Harry and co. belong to the lovely JK Rowling, who I've always wondered about –has she ever read any fanfics? Just a thought. _

_On with the story: **please review, thank you**! _

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**Just a silly little note.**

_A rememory my skinnyrita._

It began in third year. He had mastered flight charms over the summer (different from levitation, and achieved long before I'd even bothered trying to learn one) and started sending me those stupid little origami swan-notes. Whenever we were in Potions, mainly, except for that one time Snape covered us for Defence. I never showed anyone, even Ron, although they started off innocent enough. An animated cartoon –me getting a bludger to the head in quidditch – a pretty silly, pointless, juvenile threat. I don't know why I pocketed it.

All through fourth year they kept arriving at irregular intervals, landing on my desk when I least expected them. This time they were full of pictures of a stick-Harry (discernable only by the exaggerated scar and sticky-up hair) getting his head bitten off by a Hungarian Horntail, or drowning in the lake. I braced myself for their impact after the 'maze incident', but surprisingly, despite the showdowns in the corridor, there was no more 'private correspondence' till next year. Over the summer, before I was swept off to the excitement of no.12, I found a couple of early ones, shoved at the bottom of my schoolbag. For some reason I decided not to chuck them away. I had been very lonely until the dementor showed up and changed everything. I took them out and looked at them whenever I felt alone. They didn't seem so threatening.

I was grudgingly admiring of the animation spells he used. Mine usually wore off after an hour or two, but his carried on working indefinitely. They didn't fly anymore, but at least I could watch myself tripping over my feet at what I supposed was the Yule Ball, over and over again.

God I'm weird.

When we got further into fifth year, things had reached new heights of loathing between us. There were only two flying notes. One depicted a fly-Harry being greedily consumed by the toad-esque Umbridge. The second showed little stick-Harry having a raving fit. Mental, yet rather accurate. For some reason I felt those two notes represented breathing gaps in the palpable animosity between us. They were witty, in their own sick way, because the infantile method of forming pictures never faltered. Whereas outside, our real selves had reached such levels of unadulterated loathing that when he mentioned Sirius' death at the end of the year, I was ready to hurl the first unforgivable that entered my head.

That summer was hard. I seethed while I grieved. There was no way I could touch Voldemort, holed up at Privet Drive with god knows how many guards watching my back. I couldn't vent my frustration on Dudley in case Uncle Vernon threw me out after all, or in case I did any more underage magic. I holed myself up in my room and wished I could see just his spiteful face in front of me so that I could punch it in –transfer all my hate and sadness. But all I had to take my anger out on was my bedroom wall. Aunt Petunia persuaded Uncle Vernon to just let me stay in there –"at least the boy isn't under our feet –and don't forget, some of _his lot_ could be watching us." I'd never been more grateful to her.

By the time I was paced off back to no.12 again, I'd ripped up all the little notes out of spite. God knew why I'd saved them up over the years, anyway.

When sixth year started, I became aware that I hardly saw him except for class. I would have thought that would be nice, but there was something very unreassuringly suspicious about it. I considered sending him a note myself. But apart from the fact that his father was sill securely locked away, there was nothing to taunt him with apart from the unnatural pale pallor o his face, and his growing gauntness. I had just decided that he'd resolved to stop playing the game, when I got one in double Potions on a Tuesday afternoon, one what was disturbingly different.

It changed everything.

For one thing, stick-Harry was nowhere to be seen in this cartoon. The image was more detailed –it must have occupied him for most of the lesson. I was looking in on a scene filled with hooded horrors. At first I thought they were dementors, but realised they were meant to be Death Eaters. Cartoon Malfoy was getting his Mark. And it was barbaric. I felt cold. "Ten points from Gryffindor, keep an eye on your Potion, Potter." I couldn't care. Snape swept by to terrorise Neville. I glanced furtively at my correspondent. He was bent lower than usual over his cauldron, sleeves rolled down.

I felt sick.

Feigning a lost quill, I doubled back to the Potions lab. He was waiting for me. There was no one else in sight –they had all gone to do whatever it is people find to occupy themselves with before dinner. I grabbed him; I needed to check for myself before he could run away. I yanked up his left sleeve but he made no attempt to fight me. I stared at it. Oh shit. He didn't even glance at it. Or me. Something about the wall was apparently more interesting. I could taste bile as I shoved him away, disgusted.

"Why did you tell me?" I was incredulous. He must be mad.

"Don't know." He was picking at the dried on frog brains ornamenting Neville's bench. Look at me, damn it.

"What? What do you mean, you don't know?" okay, on second thoughts don't look at me. That's one intense gaze.

"It's just a silly little note, Potter." He left.

What?

What?

I told no one, of course. But the notes didn't stop coming. They were more and more graphic. I realised I was getting images of his summonings. God forbid that I'd ever called his scribblings infantile. No infant could withstand that amount of crucio. I began to see patterns. I began to dream awful things. Somehow having him, someone so strangely familiar, in my nightmares, made them even harder to take. The vengeance being wreaked on his young bones for his father's mistakes. I thought at the time, now and then, that it was unfair of him to offload all this pain onto me, when our open hostility outside of the one-sided letters never wavered. But something about their confidence spoke of some sort of understanding: how did he know I'd never tell anyone?

It was after Christmas that there wa another break in the line. For once I'd been, well, far from relaxed, but whatever Voldemort was planning, he wasn't doing it right at that moment. It was the note that shook me up: no pictures. "After Potions." When Ron leaned over to borrow my scalpel, they hastily vanished. I considered inoring the request.

"Why are you doing this?" I spoke first.

He was leaning against the dungeon wall nonchalantly, but his body was all tensed up. "Because you won't tell."

"Oh yeah, how do you know?"

"Because it's you."

"Oh." Well, what could I possibly say to that? We stood in silence for a while. It was getting on my nerves because everyone would be wondering where I was.

"No one else knows," he said., abruptly. My head snapped up –I remember feeling my neck click. He was actually looking at me, for the first time in weeks. The first thing I noticed was how mad and desperate his eyes were. He continued, "I can't go to Pomfrey because she'll want to know how it's happened. I- I can't go to Snape. He doesn't trust me. He knows, I know he does…"

"What do you want from me?"

"Meet me in the trophy room after eleven. I can't do anything here. He's got someone watching me. I just can't figure out who it is…" he was breathing erratically, and I had no idea what he was going on about. He'd left before I had a chance to get an explanation out of him.

Yes, I went to the trophy room. I was curious, and I had the map and cloak to keep me out of trouble, not to mention my wand. I waited until he was in the room and certainly alone before removing the cloak and entering myself. He emerged from the shadow of a big cabinet.

"I thought I could deal with it myself." He seemed to be grinding the words out. He was humiliated to ask me, of all improbable people, for favours. "But I can't, and you're the only one who knows." I had no clue what he was taking about, and he wasn't looking at me. I only realised he's unbuttoned his shirt when it was halfway off.

"Oh my God," articulate, I know. But oh, when I remember it… someone had been tortured. Some kind of morbid fascination overwhelmed me, and I found my fingers trailing over the bright purple stripes, along crusted crests of dried blood, new scabs, older scars…

He gasped. I don't think he;s expected me to touch him.

I felt some reluctance at withdrawing. And that was when I figured out what he was after.

"Know any spells?"

"A few."

So I patched him up.

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We stared at each other in the dark. I hoped he wasn't going to thank me –that would be too strange. I felt his lips on mine before I'd registered his movement. My hands found his newly healed torso before my brain had time to command them otherwise. Looking back I remember clinging to his alien body desperately, but at the time all I felt was a big rush of mixed emotions and partly self loathing as I tried to devour him before he could do the same to me; two hunted individuals locked together in the night: 'liaison among the award cabinets'. 

I realised that there was something about is that was shared –and that it was something very unpleasant. He picked his cause, and I picked mine.

I felt my shirt slipping away, desperation everywhere, and everything reaching a terrible crescendo.

Then, there was nothing.

No, we did not forge a truce. No, we did not continue our tryst in the trophy room. No, neither of us even enjoyed it: of that I am certain. I know. Because despite what happened afterwards, there would be no more silly little notes winging their way over to me. I miss them, now and then.

_The end. _

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_Thanks for reading –please review, I love reviews. xxxxx skinnyrita xxxxx…_


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